"The Orb of Freedom" by H. Talichi

O Lord of burning pain

O Giver of aching head

I have wronged thee

I have in my foolishness

Mistaken thy rays

For a curse to oppress

As I lay in a daze

Filmed in dank sweat

I see thy blessing outside

And begin to count inside

With each tree espied

My gratitude is multiplied

But when I raise my head

To glory in thy stead -

Why doth it stink so?!

But nay! I go off-track

With drenched palm I smack

Sense into greasy face

My sweat is but vital water

Thy gift to feed bacteria.

So I lay there in a senseless swoon

Bursting with the bounty of thy boon

When I realise what you grant

Is not just trees and bees

Sweaty pits and knees

No, what you grant to me

Is the most cherished of all

For in my utter misery

In my abject downfall

I care nothing of trivial urges 

That my paunch bulges

That my shoulders are round

That my teeth are unsound

That I walk like a 10 beer drunk

That my thoughts are mostly bunk

That I may never reach that goal

Never give back what I stole

I care nothing but for

Thy shining orb’s daily rise

Its pure burning lancing fire

Glows when I close my eyes

I have no thought but thee

Thy glorious fury with its touch

Sets me utterly free.

H. Talichi is a writer of speculative fiction, satire and poetry. He's awaiting publication of one short story in the Sci-Fi Lampoon but has otherwise only been posting out on his substack.